


The Great Escape

by Starships



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: AU, Alternate Setting - Modern AU, F/M, Family Issues, Hurt/Comfort, On the Run, Oral Sex, Porn, Rough Sex, bank robbing, gnocchi, non-canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-09-10
Packaged: 2018-04-20 04:06:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4772864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starships/pseuds/Starships
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Solas meets Ellana when she hides him after he robs a bank. </p><p>He sticks around.</p><p>A silly little mostly non-criminal love story and also porn.</p><p>I needed to put my feelings somewhere after Trespasser, but please note this is SPOILER FREE and entirely AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Great Escape

_Present Day_

Her hand hesitates on the doorknob, caressing it’s cool flesh instead of turning it. Chimes tinkle in the wind. The ground, sodden with moisture and heavy with the dead leaves of autumn, rustles under her feet. The key jams and needs wiggling in the lock, his welcome mat is long covered and slick with dirt and the decay of fall. Everything smells of petrichor and the woods and _him_.

The lights are not on inside. She figures they haven’t been for a couple years now.

It seems wrong, the lonely ache that has settled over this home. She wants to put a fire in the hearth and something he hates on the record player and watch him burn the gnocchi again and again. 

With a deep breath to calm the bottomless feeling in her stomach, she turns the handle.

 

_October, 1997_

Chuck Taylors were not meant for this kind of running. 

He’s kicked up a pebble a block ago that somehow got into the space of his hightops, his knees ache from the thud on the asphalt, and the sack of money slung over his shoulder is seriously heavy. 

He had tried to cut away from his pursuit twice now, once behind a garbage truck and once behind a garbage bin itself and into an alley. The alley was a dead end, but the dumpster belonged to that of a run down Italian place. One of those family restaurants that always had a bored teenager playing host. He pushes the door open and tries to calm his breathing.

Act normal. Or something.

A red head with enormous doe eyes stares at him from the other end of the restaurant. Her nails are laquered in aqua and she is loudly popping her own bubble gum, backlit from the windows behind her.

Bingo.

“Hi,” he says awkwardly, shifting from one foot to the other. “Can I, uh, get a table, please? In the back, maybe?”

He definitely could. The place is deserted.

She picks up a menu, walking somewhat hesitantly toward him, her white Keds spotless despite showing signs of wear. He winces as the sirens sound on the street outside, some tires squealing to a halt, some continuing on down the block. 

Her hair is not a natural red. 

“Please?” he asks again, desperation seeping in to his edges, cracking his composure. He still can’t get his breathing under control. 

“They’re here for you, aren’t they?” she asks, pointing at the half dozen cops scouring the block on foot. 

“My sister. She… I…” He shakes his head, features hardening from a plea to a mask. “It does not matter. I should not have come in.”

But the girl reaches a hand out, and touches his arm. “It’s okay. I have a sister too.” 

And then he is being tugged farther back into the kitchen, past the flat tops and prep stations and into the refrigerator. She tosses a jacket and gloves from a hook on the wall at him. 

“I’ll get rid of them,” she whispers. “Give me ten minutes. Sorry it’s cold. You’ll be okay.”

Seventeen minutes later, huddled between hams and fish with teeth chattering, the door opens again and she beckons him out. She’s turned the OPEN sign off, and is calmly brewing coffee. 

The cops are gone.

“What did you do?” he asks with no small measure of surprise.

She shrugs. “Told them I saw you take off toward downtown. I had your description, so they believed me. I said you got in a cab and that you had crazy eyes.”

He gives her a look.

“Yeah, those. Cream and sugar?”

 

_November, 1998_

Ellana has a boyfriend.

He is not fucking okay with this. 

But because he is _older_ than she is and slightly a _criminal_ and _definitely not interested_ in her, Solas bites his tongue and violently throws the young man’s jeans out of her apartment door. The kid is shouting and scrambling for the rest of his clothes and Ellana just stays in bed, sheet up to her chest, face in her palm. 

“Who is he?” Solas asks after the door has slammed shut and _shit_ and _fuck_ could be heard drifting back from the hallway. 

“I don’t know,” she says casually, accepting the tea he had brought her. He himself had coffee, and he had a single scone to split.

“What?” he asks, surprised.

Not a boyfriend.

“I got drunk, okay? And I… It doesn’t matter.”

“You what, El?” he prods gently, sitting on the bed next to her, definitely not noticing that she was naked and she had nice taste in sheets. Soft. Same color as her eyes. 

And she has sex hair.

He tries to forget it was from actual sex.

“I just wanted to get it over with, okay? It’s not a big deal.”

It sounds very much like a big deal. 

“Was it good?” he asks. Laughing, she hits him with her spare pillow. 

“Nope!” she declares, taking the scone and not breaking it in half.

He lets her have it, even if it was one of the fluffy cream based ones from the tiny local bakery down the street that he’d never had better than. 

She licks the sugar off the top, and he pretends not to notice.

 

_June, 1999_

Solas hasn’t heard from her in two days, and her apartment is empty. He goes looking.

He finds her sobbing in her parent’s kitchen, having found the front door ajar and off one of it’s hinges. She is pouring vodka down the sink. 

He doesn’t know what to do, so he comes up behind her and presses his whole body into her, hugging her with every inch of warmth he could give. His arms are around her and they sway together, while she cries and cuts his skin with her nails and clutches him. 

Her hair is a rich deep brown this month, and smells of grass and flowers. She hasn’t cut it in a long time. 

He isn’t prepared when she kisses him. 

It happens fast. She was leaning in to him, and then she was turning, hands behind his head and pulling him desperately to her. Her lips were wet and salty, but her tongue was warm, and perhaps what he was most unprepared for was how _well_ she could kiss. She had done some learning when he wasn’t looking, and it made him clutch her shoulders and back her into the counter and grind his cock into her, hoping in some way to scare the rest of the world off.

She moaned, but it was nasal and stuffy sounding, and he remembered how loud her sorrow had echoed through the kitchen. 

“Stop, El,” he whispers into her neck, not wanting to communicate the sting of rejection as well. “What happened?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she says, struggling to get purchase on his buttons. “Just fuck me, please. _Please._ Solas.”

“Shh,” he soothes, still pressed against her but stroking her hair. She is pinned and can’t manage his clothes. “Later. We’ll talk about that later. It’s okay, El.”

Abandoning her quest to undo his buttons, she instead brings them and his shirt to her face and breathes him in. 

She doesn’t feel like crying.

Or sex.

Or anything.

But she desperately wants to.

“Mum’s in a coma,” she says flatly. “Dad put her there.”

He holds her closer and eyes the bottle in the sink.

“And I can’t stay here.”

He nods, and kisses the part of her ear he can reach. 

“Then we’ll go,” he says simply.

 

_July, 1999_

They do not talk about it later.

They do not kiss again. 

They share hotel rooms while they figure out a new city to settle in, and he pretends to not hear her rustling under the sheets and touching herself when she thinks he’s sleeping.

He’s very good at pretending these days.

 

_September, 2004_

No matter what else in this world, above all things, he is hopeless at gnocchi.

It’s the fucking butter. The smoke point is too low, he complains. Why can’t I just fry these in oil.

She scoffs and reminds him he is not Italian and maybe he should try cooking with some patience and then she leaves for work. 

He grumbles and tosses a frilly tea towel over his shoulder after drying his hands.

He’s determined to get this right. 

He pulls down another pan.

The house is light and airy, deep in the woods an hour out of town. They watch movies and she crochets enormous blankets and flounces on the couch to demand he entertain her when she is bored. 

She has had two boyfriends, and he hasn’t murdered either of them. Miracles happen. 

He has had no one, and she tries not to notice. 

She works as a waitress, and his sister is getting sicker, and she hasn’t heard from her parents in seventeen months.

The family money is running out, and he worries in a way that gnaws constantly under his skin.

Life continues.

He doesn’t burn the third batch.

 

_November, 2004_

She has had an entire bottle of wine to herself the first time they have sex.

He is once again surprised, and tries to remind himself he really should see this coming now.

They had been on the couch in pajamas watching Blowout when she sat up and straddled him, pushing down on the erection he’d been trying to hide. He could feel exactly how fucking warm she was through their flimsy excuse for clothing. 

She leans down to growl in his ear, “This isn’t a sexy movie, you know. I know you’re thinking dirty things and I can’t handle staring at your cock anymore and not doing anything with it.”

To prove her point she slides herself back and forth and he throws his head back and groans. 

“Good?” she asks playfully, only slurring a little. “I mean, I can stop if you don’t want—”

But as she starts to swing her leg off him, he reaches back and grabs her by the ass, one globe for each hand, and spreads her wide while pushing her down. She has never felt anything so filthy. 

“I want,” he says slowly, making deliberate eye contact. She bites her lip.

“Me, too.”

She reaches for the remote and turns the TV off, and in the darkness slides off of him and brings his flannel pajamas with her. He hasn’t even adjusted to the lack of light when her mouth slides around him and sucks, hard. He almost shouts, fisting his hands into her hair and trying not to be rough but _fuck_ it’s been so fucking long and he was wanted her since she was too young and hid him in a refrigerator. 

When she chokes herself on his cock and uses her free hand to encourage his to push her down, he knows he’s doomed. He thrusts up and fucks her mouth hard, and she’s slippery and a mess and she’s moaning and it’s the sexiest thing that’s ever happened to him. 

He pushes her off him gently and guides her above him on the couch, sliding her pants off her ankles and pulling her hips back over his face. She doesn’t hesitate to open her mouth for him again, and he’s trying to keep his sounds in and hold back so he’s free to explore her. Using his hands to spread her labia, he leans in and gives her one hard lick from clit to base and she groans over his cock and her body spasms and he was wrong, _this_ is the sexiest thing. 

She is.

All of her. 

She’s drunk enough to not be shy, and he hasn’t realized she’s licked her fingers until they’re pressing gently at his ass, and he sucks her clit into her mouth and flicks his tongue over it as hard and as fast as he can while he opens his legs for her. 

She pushes inside, and he does the same, and he really, really fucking hopes this is okay in the morning. 

His fingers and face are soaked with her, and when she comes the first time he rolls his tongue into her to drink as much of it as he can, focusing on her instead of the heat at the base of his spine and the urge come as deep as he can in her throat and feel her swallow. 

She’s relentless though, adding a second finger and pushing both deep while her lips are against his pubic bone, and she’s moaning and thrusting into him and he fucking shouts and bucks into her mouth and she does, she swallows, and he thinks he’s blacked out or seen stars or maybe that he isn’t awake at all. 

She turns around and curls into him, murmuring sleepily, both of them wearing t shirts and no pants. He reaches for a great purple monstrosity of a blanket she had made and tosses it over both of them, only half dreading the morning.

But when he wakes she is riding his cock, stretched wide and touching her own clit with the devil’s smile on her face and a halo of morning light behind her, and he realizes he will never leave and will never want to.

 

_April, 2010_

He hadn’t known when she had gone to school for programming and continued to stay in tech and engineering that she would one day use her hacking powers for evil.

Well, for breaking the law, anyway.

He comes home to her on the living room floor, drinking tea and buried under schematics. She looks up cheerfully.

“I think I know how to rob ATMs,” she says, and takes a sip. 

He stares at her blankly. 

“For your sister,” she clarifies. “Social Security won’t pay enough and won’t approve her treatments, but if we can get the cash to the university she’s got a much better shot.”

His heart clenches.

“It’s a lot safer than robbing a bank,” she continues, “in case you’re worried about that. I mean, it _is_ robbing a bank. But it won’t be like it was for you when we met. I can hide our tracks, put the money in an account, and we can access it once we’re clear. We might have to leave the country, but we’ve dropped everything and left before.”

She looks up at him, and he can’t breathe, there is a storm in her eyes and he never wants it to stop. 

“Your sister will live, Solas.”

He’s never been able to say no to her.

 

_October, 2010_

They spend six months planning and testing, and when they are ready she is confident they won’t get caught. 

They don’t.

 

_December, 2013_

They do the second time, though.

They separate and flee the country with fake IDs like good little criminals, and without her smell around him it feels like he can’t get air.

It is a long two years.

 

_Present Day_

The house is dark, the purple yarn of the blanket slightly faded and absolutely covered in dust. She shakes it free and smells it just the same. 

It’s less than an hour later when she hears his footsteps on the porch, heavy and hesitant. She has no such compunctions and races to the door, tackling him and clutching his collar and kissing every inch of his neck she can find. His laugh startles a crow from a nearby pine tree.

“Six months in Bolivia,” she growls, biting at his collar bone, taking off his clothes before she’s even met his eyes. “ _Eighteen_ in Brazil and now we’re back in this house and you’re here and _I need you inside me_ and then we can fucking talk.” 

They leave their clothes all over the hallway. She drops a bag and four different passports fall out. A stack of IDs comes out of his back pocket as it and his belt land with a heavy thud. He fucks her hard and fast in their dusty old house, and when they’re finished she goes to the hearth and lights a fire while he sees what is left of the kitchen.

They talk. They don’t get dressed for days. They make up for lost time, as best they can.

He burns their dinner, but it was only cans from the pantry anyway. 

He’ll get the gnocchi right when it’s time.

**Author's Note:**

> VIDEO GAME FEELINGS.


End file.
